


the art of falconry

by GeraldTheFabulousGiraffe



Series: ell aska semal seem-sa [3]
Category: Original Work, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Child Death, Deaf Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Gen, Human Trafficking, Original Character(s), Original Mythology, Protective Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Suicidal Thoughts, hes not tho, isai just thinks he is, ngl Mic is straight up the best person in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeraldTheFabulousGiraffe/pseuds/GeraldTheFabulousGiraffe
Summary: What Isai gets up to when her son is missing.Otherwise known as, Yamada Hizashi is the best person in the world.
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic & Original Character(s)
Series: ell aska semal seem-sa [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058528
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	the art of falconry

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i am a Present Mic stan, how did you know?
> 
> wrote this a couple weeks ago and am finally getting around to uploading it.
> 
> isai is in a hella bad way, so warnings for suicidal intent and gore.

It takes Eraserhead three weeks to track down a certain serial killer. All he has to go on is the crime scenes, a single copper feather, and the mauled bodies. Though, to call them  _ mauled _ was an understatement. They were desecrated. Vertebrae ripped apart, limbs torn  _ off _ , and heads almost always little more than an oozing puddle on the floor. Or wall. Or ceiling. Safe to say,  _ all  _ the bodies had to go through thorough DNA testing.

And, in the end, it is not even Eraserhead that finds her.

To set the stage, it is July. The heat is sweltering, even at one in the morning, and Present Mic, otherwise known as Yamada Hizashi, is taking a break, intending to text his husband, maybe learn more about his case, when he sees  _ her. _

She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. But she is not beautiful in the way that a model, or a lover, is beautiful. No. She is beautiful in the way of hurricanes, of crouching tigers, of natural disasters; she is not a thing to worship, but to be feared. Her eyes glow a dim gold against the harsh neon of the city, of his station. Her wings arch, molten bronze feathers against dirty concrete. Talons grace her fingertips, black and curved, glinting in the light given off by a thousand signs. A fanned tail brushes over the floor, sweeping rocks and cigarette butts into neat piles.

She is perched, perilously, on the edge of the roof. Teetering back-and-forth, back-and-forth, a never ending sway. The talons on her feet, thick and deadly, dig grooves into the worn building. Their height springs to his mind. It is not a small one.

Distantly, he realises she is singing. It is the saddest song he’s ever heard. The melody falls from her lips like that of a lullaby, but the lyrics are macabre at best, horrific at worst. Golden eyes gleam, wet against the words. 

Now sure of her intentions, the Voice Hero starts forward, hand raised to pull her to safety. Before he makes contact, however, she sighs, and looks at him.

Her eyes, together with the black markings framing them, kick his instincts into overdrive.  _ PREDATOR PREDATOR PREDATOR,  _ they shout. Several million years warn of eyes in the dark, of things with teeth and claws, and killing focus. He cannot ignore them, just as he cannot ignore how clearly she intends to die.

“I am a disgrace,” she laughs, hoarse and brittle, “I am not worthy of my wings, nor my song.” Her hand gestures out, over the cityscape. “Look at this,” the mystery woman sighs, “I have no place here. I belong to the mountains and wilds, hunting deer with my siblings and wife; I should be there, throwing myself into roaring winds — not tickled by a tamed breeze. I have no name here, no pride. I am nothing but a stolen prize, lost and confused. I do not belong in this world,  _ your  _ world. I am bound only by the hunt for my child’s corpse.”

Before he can hope to grasp  _ that  _ particular statement, she turns again to face the night. 

“If I find him, do you think I would be set free?” Her tail dances over his ankles, copper and gold and bronze, a thousand precious metals. “I hear him sometimes, my Keigo, my prince of the sky. He is hungry, he tells me. Hungry for water and meat I cannot provide, bar the rats I can snatch. He is scared, he tells me. Scared of the shadows and the men who beat us. Scared that they will break his wings, and I shall never teach him how to fly.

“Sometimes, I dream that I find him. He has been so distorted and changed by the time he has been locked away, that he does not know me. I call for him, and he does not even turn, just holds out his wrists to be bound in chains.

“The worst, however, is when I hold him in one arm, and Aimar, my wonderful Aimar-ya, in the other. I can hear my siblings bickering. About snow, about the wind, about who used whose blanket. All is well and I feel at peace. Then I awake, here; in a foreign land, alone with nightmares I hide from and dreams I wish would never end.”

She is weeping by the end, but she does not seem to notice.

When he speaks, Hizashi startles them both.

“What’s your name?”

Her feathers puff up along her spine, more like a spooked cat than any bird. The tracks on her freckled cheeks become ever damper, framed by a messy black fringe and waist length tresses.

“Isai,” she says, “my name is Isai and I was a captain.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
